Reasonable Doubt 2(10)

Aubrey

Subject: Re: Wet Panty Fetish

I did realize that you slipped your thong into my pocket this morning. I’ve noticed that you’ve done this all week.

Contrary to your unfounded and silly assumptions, I do not have a panty fetish and I do not sleep with them over my face at night. I do, however, have a new fetish for your pussy, and if you’re interested in letting me sleep with THAT over my face at night, feel free to let me know.

Andrew

I waited for a response—watched my screen for several minutes, but then I realized it was Wednesday and she wouldn’t see my email until later.

I made my way outside and slipped into my car. I didn’t feel like going back to the firm—my case files were all up to date, and it was too early to go home.

Revving up my car, I coasted down the street in search of a decent bar. As I was turning past the law school, I noticed Duke’s dance hall across the street.

I wasn’t sure what came over me, but I made a right turn and pulled into the parking lot. I followed the signs that read “Dance Studio” and parked in front.

There was a sign on the double doors of the auditorium that read “Private Rehearsals: Dancers Only,” but I ignored it. I followed the faint sound of piano keys and violin strings and opened the door to a colossal theater.

Bright lights shone directly on the stage, and dancers dressed in all white were spinning. Before I could come to my senses and make myself leave, I spotted Aubrey in the front.

Wearing the same feathered headband she wore at the art gallery, she was smiling wider than I’d ever seen her smile before—dancing as if no one else was in the room. There was a gleam in her eyes that I never saw while she was at GBH, and although I didn’t know shit about ballet, it was extremely clear that she was the best dancer onstage.

“Extend, Miss Everhart! Extend!” A grey haired man walked onto the stage, yelling. “More! More!”

She continued dancing—stretching her arms out further, extending her hands. “No! No! NO!” The man stomped his foot. “Stop the music!”

The pianist immediately stopped and the director stepped in front of Aubrey.

“Do you know what the characteristics of the white swan are, Miss Everhart?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Yes?” He looked offended.

“Yes, Mr. Petrova.” She stood still.

“If that’s so, why don’t you enlighten us all as to what those special characteristics are...”

“Light, airy, elegant—”

“Elegant!” He stomped his foot again. “The white swan is all about smooth, gentle movements... Her arms are well poised, graceful.” He grabbed her elbow and pulled her forward. “Your arms are erratic, rough, and you’re dancing like a pigeon on crack!”

Her cheeks reddened, but he continued.

“I want a swan, Miss Everhart, and if you’re not up to the part—if your heart is elsewhere, like that other major you have, do me favor and let me know so I can groom someone else for the role.”

Silence.

“Let’s try this again!” He stepped back. “On my count, start the song from the second stanza...”

I leaned back against the wall, watching Aubrey effortlessly dance again and make everyone else look like amateurs. I watched until I couldn’t watch anymore, until her old director spotted my shadow and yelled at “the goddamn intruder” to leave.

***

Later that night, I walked into the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of bourbon,—pouring myself a shot. It was two in the morning and I was beyond restless.

I hadn’t been able to sleep since I came home and spotted a note from Ava on my door: “I’m not leaving until we talk—Ava.”

I’d balled it up and thrown it into the trash, wondering which person at GBH had been stupid enough to give out my address.

As I tossed back a shot, my phone rang.

“It’s two in the morning,” I hissed, holding it up to my ear.

“Um...” There was a slight pause. “May I speak to a...A Mr. Hamilton, please?”

“This is he. Did you not hear me say what time it is?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hamilton.” She cleared her throat. “I’m Gloria Matter from the parole board in New York City. I’m sorry to call you so late, but I didn’t want to turn in until I returned your inquiry from last week,” she said. “The inmate you called about is no longer an inmate. She was released recently and is now on parole.”

“I’m aware that she’s on parole.” I poured another drink. “However, I’m pretty sure leaving the state is a direct violation of those terms. Is New York soft on crime now? Do you let previous offenders roam the world as they please?”